


Mesothermic

by Elizabeth Tudor (Liz_Tudor)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale being awesome, Crowley doesn’t like the cold, Crowley nesting on the couch, Crowley’s houseplants, Fluff, Fuzzy blankets, GROW BETTER, Gen, He's not moving until spring, Hibernating, Hot Chocolate, No beta we fall like Crowley, Side effects of being a snake for a few millennia, Tea helps everything, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings, Winter, ineffable husbands, post armageddon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-15 09:29:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21251189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liz_Tudor/pseuds/Elizabeth%20Tudor
Summary: Unfortunately, as any tool-using mammal could tell you, form follows function. Or was it function following form? Either way, a few millennia as a snake had left Crowley with a deep-seated dislike of winter in general, and of damp, soggy, sluggish grey London winter in particular.No, winters, Crowley had decided, simply weren’t worth the effort. He had spent the last few dozen of them hibernating, after turning the radiator up as far as it would go and shouting at his houseplants that they’d better be lush and beautiful when he woke up in a few weeks to check on them.His opinion of winters, however, had improved significantly after he’d begun spending them in a flat above a certain bookshop in SoHo.





	Mesothermic

**Author's Note:**

> Written in one sitting, because Crowley and his houseplants. That is all.

Crowley was a lot of things. He was, of course, a demon. That meant that he was an angel, albeit a Fallen one. He was an aficionado of good whiskey and dark sunglasses. He was an excellent tempter, when he could be bothered. He had been the Serpent of Eden.

Unfortunately, as any tool-using mammal could tell you, form follows function. Or was it function following form? Either way, a few millennia as a snake had left Crowley with a deep-seated dislike of winter in general, and of damp, soggy, sluggish grey London winters in particular.

It was just so hard to force yourself out of bed when you knew that the sparse, residual heat trapped by the blankets would dissipate into frigid, sleet-damped shivering in only a few minutes of regretting your choice to get up at all. Hardly worth it, anyway, most humans were sensible enough to hide indoors, so there was barely even any tempting to be done until the earth had turned back towards the sun and the days began to dry out.

No, winters, Crowley had decided, simply weren’t worth the effort. He had spent the last few dozen of them hibernating, after turning the radiator up as far as it would go and shouting at his houseplants that they’d better be lush and beautiful when he woke up in a few weeks to check on them.

His opinion of winters, however, had improved significantly after he’d begun spending them in a flat above a certain bookshop in SoHo.

Perhaps it was just the heat. Aziraphale, and by extension, his dwelling, radiated heavenly warmth that soothed and caressed instead of blasting and smiting. It was like sinking into a balmy summer day, made even better by the sullen winds clambering uselessly at the window and leaving sleet in dripping piles on the sill outside.

Yes, Crowley decided, snuggling even farther into the warm, worn tartan blanket he’d commandeered a month and a half ago, this was definitely the superior way to ride out the winter.

The angel, who had sighingly allowed him in the first time and never followed through on his threats to send him home any subsequent winters, was currently at the other end of the overstuffed old couch, frowning faintly as he bent over some ancient and cracking book with wafer-thin pages, sounding out esoteric syllables to himself and trying to piece together their meaning. More than he’d ever admit, Crowley enjoyed watching him at it. Even if he’d once been a Watcher at the Gates of Eden, wielder of a flaming sword, Aziraphale was a scholar, first and foremost, and intellectual exertion looked good on him, the way physical exertion looked good on athletes. The silky black velvet blanket Crowley had brought with him was draped, forgotten, over his knees, and the demon could see the moment when the furrow between his brows deepened, then unknitted, and anticipated it a moment before the angel pushed the book away and stood.

“I know what you’re thinking.”

The Principality blinked at his houseguest, surprised.

“Beg pardon?”

“You’re thinking -” Crowley took a moment to stretch, luxuriously, then nestled even farther into the blankets that he’d buried himself in “- that you’d quite like a break from that book, and a cup of cocoa.”

“I was thinking tea, actually,” Aziraphale informed him, but he couldn’t quite hide the smile that twitched the corners of his mouth.

“Oh.” The demon frowned, momentarily stymied. “Well…as long as you’re going to be in the kitchen anyway then – _I _could use a cup of cocoa.”

“If you want one, miracle it up then, my dear,” he chided, moving into the kitchen. He put the kettle on the stove – but, after making sure Crowley couldn’t see him, he pulled the milk out of the old Formica fridge as well.

“It never tastes the same,” his overwinter houseguest scowled, then sighed. “Oh, hell. You’re rubbing off on me, angel. _Please_ make me one, then,” he amended, and Aziraphale didn’t even try to hide his smile at the request. _A good influence indeed._ He’d mostly stopped worrying about things like that, after Not Quite the End, but it still brought a smug little glow of satisfaction to his angelic heart.

“Very well,” he sighed, continuing to measure out milk and shave off curls of chocolate. The resurrection lily and the potted orchid Crowley had given him, glowing with divine health, rustled smugly on the windowsill. The demon stuck out his forked tongue at them.

“I could still mulch you, you know,” he threatened. “Bring you back for a little reunion with the rest of my plants, let ‘em know their friends are alive after all, then dowse you in weed killer right in front of ‘em.” The fear would last them for _days_. They’d never be sure how much of what he said they could trust. It would be delicious.

“You’ll do no such thing,” Aziraphale scolded gently, handing him the steaming mug. “Now drink your cocoa.”

“If you insist, angel,” Crowley failed to grumble, taking a deep sip of the contents of the mug. As rich as melted chocolate bars, but magnificently creamy and frothy, and the _perfect_ temperature to heat that last little sliver of cold inside of him. He sighed in satisfaction, too content even to be annoyed that the resurrection lily spontaneously starting blooming when Aziraphale smiled at it.

The angel moved back towards the couch, his own teacup in hand, then paused at the edge of the coffee table.

Aziraphale would never allow flames near his precious books – especially not after That – but a glowing ball of his heavenly Grace pulsing gently in the brick fireplace made an excellent - and quite atmospheric - substitute. Satisfied, he settled back down, pulled the ancient tome over, and continued reading, making occasional notes on what looked to Crowley like a sheaf of honest-to-Lucifer parchment.

The demon serenely sipped at his chocolate, content for now to ignore the stack of novels and grimoires that he’d borrowed off the shelves of the bookshop downstairs. The soft warmth of the heavenly glow emanating from the fireplace and from his seasonal flatmate was enough to make him drowsy, cocooned as he was in blankets and hot drinks and contentment. From the street outside, he could hear a snatch of someone singing a late Christmas carol, laughing as the grey January winds carried the words to the window.

“’Cause it’s the most wonderful tiiiime…aaaaah-of the year!”

_It is indeed._


End file.
